The older woman smiled. “That’s what makes you a good police officer. Your curiosity. You’ll be a detective one day, I do believe.”
“Maybe. It’s hot here. Are you ever tempted to spend the summer in Maine?”
“I’m often tempted, but the memories…” She took a small breath. “I sometimes visit my grandson there. It’s not easy for me, but Owen—he embraces adversity.”
No surprise there. “You’re not from Austin.”
“West Texas. My husband and I moved here after we were married. We kept houses in Maine and Boston for many years. Our son eventually took over the Boston house. But he lives here now, too.”
“Because of your granddaughter.”
Polly Garrison’s eyes misted. “Yes. Because of Doe.”
“The Coopers bought your house on Mt. Desert Island after she drowned.”
“That’s right.”
“But you kept land there, and eventually Owen built his own place there.”
“Owen couldn’t bear for us to leave Maine altogether. It was as if to do so would be to betray Doe. He was only eleven when we lost her.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“None of us can.”
“But Austin’s home for him?”
“I’m not sure anywhere’s home for him. Abigail…” The older woman extended a hand. “My dear, we all understand your need for answers, but don’t you think Chris would want you to be happy?”
“I am happy. But I want to know who killed my husband.”
As a line of cars passed behind her on Beacon Street and children squealed on Boston Common, Abigail realized her throat had tightened with the onslaught of memories, the July heat, the awareness of what she meant to do.
After her chat with Polly Garrison, who had revealed little about her family’s relationship with the Coopers, Abigail had returned to her modest Austin motel. She took a shower. Her hair had been long then, dripping into her clingy camisole top when Owen turned up at her door.
Just out of the army, he was rugged and hard-edged and not very pleased with her.
“You’re out of your jurisdiction, Officer Browning. And you’re not a detective.”
“Astute of you.”
“Next time you want to come down here and ask my grandmother about her dead granddaughter—don’t. Deal with me instead.”
Abigail didn’t defend herself. She simply pointed to the two-inch scar under his eye. “Where did you get that scar—a search-and-rescue mission?”
“Bar fight.”
On his way out, he paid for her motel stay. She didn’t know until she packed up the next day for Boston. It wasn’t kindness on Owen’s part. It was his way of telling her she was on his turf, and out of her league.
Except she didn’t give a damn. Then or now.
“Things are happening on Mt. Desert. Again.”
If so, were the Garrisons and the Coopers involved? Abigail had no idea, but she meant to find out.
When she got back to her triple-decker, she pulled a six-pack of Otter Creek Pale Ale out of the refrigerator, microwaved a bag of popcorn, sharpened three pencils, unwrapped three fresh yellow legal pads and put everything out on her little kitchen table.
Then she phoned her upstairs neighbors, and they came.
Scoop Wisdom had a shaved head and a ferocious, unbridled demeanor, but he’d adopted two stray cats. Abigail didn’t believe anyone who had cats could be all that scary.
The cheerful blues and yellows of her kitchen—even the beer and popcorn—had no apparent effect on either man.
“I need your help,” she told them.
Scoop’s dark eyes narrowed on her. Bob just scowled.
She raked a hand through her short curls. “I got a call last night.”
Bob snorted. “About goddamn time you came clean.”
“What? Lucas told you? When?”
Scoop grabbed a beer, opened it and took a long drink. “He called me on his way to meet you at the restaurant. I called Bob.”
“And none of you said anything? Lucas, you two—”
“We don’t butt into other people’s business,” Bob said.
Abigail had to laugh. “You’re detectives. You butt into other people’s business all the time.” But not hers, she realized. “All right. I should have told you myself. I needed today to get my head together. Burning my journals helped.”
Scoop frowned at her. “You burned your journals?”
“They weren’t evidence.” She shrugged. “They’re where I dumped my emotions.”
“Oh. Okay, then.” Obviously not wanting more details, Scoop pointed with his beer at the stack of files. “These your files on your husband’s murder?”
“My notes, newspaper articles, photographs, sketches. Everything I could pull together on my own, without stepping on toes.”
Bob grabbed a beer for himself. “You tell the Maine police about the call?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Unimpressed but investigating.”
“What about Daddy?”
She looked at the stack of files. She’d never asked her father to go through them with her. He’d never offered. He wouldn’t want to encourage her to investigate Chris’s death on her own. “No. I haven’t talked to him.”